


The Battle of Combahee

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, Technically an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens charms small woodland creatures from the forest, a.k.a. an improved version of the events of August 27, 1782 in which the only thing attacking anyone is a bunny rabbit and NOBODY DIES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle of Combahee

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr, philly-osopher, and now transferred here for your convenience :)

“Sir, we’ve spotted a foraging party near the Combahee,” said the scout to Colonel Laurens, who was currently seated cross-legged under an oak tree, gazing at a cottontail rabbit with rapt attention. He had a stick of charcoal in hand and sketchbook balanced on his knee, and as the scout watched, he captured the general body plan of the creature in a few light ovoid shapes. 

“Do they outnumber us?”

“Oh, no chance they don’t,” the scout replied.

The colonel began adding shade to the leftmost portion of the image, being careful not to smudge the charcoal. “Are they advantageously positioned?” 

“Again, yes.” The scout tried not to observe too obviously the progress of the drawing, yet noted with some satisfaction that Colonel Laurens had depicted perfectly the fluffiness of the rabbit’s tail. 

“And what are their armaments?”

“I would say they’re extensive, sir.” Most of the creature’s hindquarters complete, the artist now turned to the animal’s tiny forepaws. He looked up, only to discover his model had moved– had, in fact, hopped several feet closer. He furrowed his brow and looked down to the drawing, back at the rabbit, back at the drawing again, and at last resumed his task.

“Did they seem to be poorly commanded?” he said, as the rabbit took two hops closer. “Damn,” he said, under his breath.

The scout stood stock still, fearful of frightening the creature with a movement. “Not that I could see.”

“Suffering from low morale?” 

“Definitely not.” Whiskers appeared on paper in a flurry of strokes. 

“Starving, diseased, or otherwise disadvantaged?” Shading inside the ears.

“It looked to me like they were in excellent fighting form, sir.” A nose. Some trick of the artist’s hand made it appear like at any moment the rabbit might twitch its whiskers–which was no surprise to the scout, since the rabbit was, in fact, scarcely a foot away from him, twitching its whiskers. 

Colonel Laurens paused for a moment, perhaps in order to consider the strategic situation, perhaps only to shade in the creature’s great black eye, in which he centered a single point of light. 

“Well, then,” he said, “given that it is our duty to _will you stay still you blasted creature_ –-your pardon, sir, I must apologize–”

The insubordinate rabbit took one final hop forward and began nibbling carefully on the left shirtsleeve of Colonel Laurens' meticulously put-together uniform.

“Understood, sir,” said the scout, struggling not to laugh. “Duty to harry the British, but obviously a bad idea. No engagement today.”

Colonel Laurens looked up puzzledly, as though he meant to offer a correction, but was distracted by the lagomorph now threatening his cuff-buttons. In that moment the division of rank between the two men did not seem so great, and so the scout mustered up the courage to ask, “Beg pardon, sir, but that’s a beautiful drawing you’ve done.”

“Why, that is very kind,” Colonel Laurens said, at last prying off the rabbit and setting it gently upon the grass.

“My daughter– that is, my youngest, Patsy–she loves the bunny rabbits. Except she can’t really say it right yet–calls ‘em wabbits. I wonder if…”

“Say no more,” said the colonel, tearing the sheet from the book in a rapid motion and handing it over. “You said she was your youngest? How many daughters do you have?”

“Four,” said the scout, beaming with pride. “And a son on the way, God willing.”

A faint smile appeared on Colonel Laurens' face. “Well. God speed you back to them.”

“Hope so, sir. War’s almost over. No more battles for me! Uh, not that I–um.” The smile faded; the scout wondered if he’d said something wrong. Probably the bit about not wanting to go into battle; rumor had it this officer was a right tartar, one of them death-and/or-glory types. “Was there something else? Only earlier, it looked like you might say something.”

“Hm? Oh, no. Yes. That is, I’ve… I’ve changed my mind. You’re dismissed.”

“Right. Goodbye, sir.”

As he was leaving he caught a glance back at his young commander. He looked troubled, uncertain, perhaps even a little guilty. But as the scout watched he stretched out his hand to the rabbit and gently stroked a finger down its ear. Over the stretch of cool grass the scout thought he heard the man say, “Well, little fellow, I suppose duty can wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Actual history John Laurens died in a skirmish on the Combahee River, sick, outnumbered, and without a clear strategic need to have engaged at all. Please don't look at me right now, guys.)


End file.
